No Strings Attached. Susan AndersenЧитать онлайн книгу.
that crackled in Micah’s voice. “Why d’you think it’s him now? We been wonderin’ fer durn near a year iffen he’d come.”
She shot a weary glance at the old man. His wide, rheumy eyes and gaping mouth matched his astonished tone. “I got a note from Frank Edwards a few days ago,” she admitted.
“You shoulda told me! We coulda got things ready fer him.”
“What difference does it make? It’s his, no matter what condition it’s in.”
Micah’s gaze raked her with uncomfortable deliberation. “What’s wrong, Amber-girl? This is Richard’s nephew. You loved Richard an’ he was good to both of us. How come you don’t want Derek here? You don’t even know him.”
Amber sighed. It might shock him to realize it, but Micah didn’t know everything about her. He thought he understood her, and she would never tell him any differently—for both their sakes. She couldn’t face him if he knew all her secrets.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I haven’t slept well the past couple of nights.”
He nodded. “It’s the change in season. Spring ain’t your fondest season anymore.”
Turning, she watched the newcomers approach ever nearer. As a child, spring had always been her favorite time of year, and part of her still marveled to see the earth renew itself. But spring had also seen an end to much that she held dear, and she could no longer take the same joy in it.
“No.” Her answer, finally, was clean and simple, allowing her to concentrate on the new arrivals. “I don’t suppose it is.”
The riders reached the edge of the crushed rock-and-shell driveway, close enough that she could make out the first details. The men both appeared to be thirty or thereabouts, lean and fit. Their features remained indistinct, but they rode well, straight and easy, one on a gleaming red sorrel and the other on a powerful black stallion. The horses looked healthy and lively, even from a distance.
Pausing at the front of the house, they shared a brief exchange that didn’t carry before Micah caught their attention with an abbreviated wave and a sharp “Halloo.”
The man on the sorrel led the way around back. “Is this the Double F Ranch?”
Amber lost, in that moment, any doubts that may have lingered about the man’s identity. It was Richard’s voice asking the question, Richard’s face looking down at her. His eyes remained shadowed under the brim of his dusty brown hat, but that changed nothing. Derek Fontaine was clearly his uncle’s double, though separated by a span of thirty years.
She had never given much thought to Richard’s looks; he had simply been her father’s friend. Suddenly, though, looking at Derek and his younger version of Richard’s face, she discovered with some surprise that he was quite possibly the most handsome man she’d ever seen. The high curve of his cheekbones gave his face an elegance that was apparent even under a reddish-brown beard and mustache. The whiskers provided a subtle accent for his full, finely drawn lips, but at the same time concealed the cut of his jaw. His nose presented the only unremarkable feature on his face.
“Ma’am?”
Amber blinked and swallowed. For pity’s sake, what was the matter with her? Standing here, staring at this man—any man—like a smitten schoolgirl.
She frowned and shook her head. “I beg your pardon, sir. We don’t often have visitors. This is the Double F Ranch. And you must be Derek Fontaine.”
He stiffened, but nodded with a sharp tilt of his head. “I am. You were expecting me?”
“Mr. Edwards—the banker—sent word a few days ago.”
“And you are?”
“I’m sorry.” She flushed, both embarrassed and irritated by her lapse in manners. “This is Micah Smith, and my name is Amber Laughton. We worked for your uncle.”
Derek nodded and removed his hat in a gesture of respect Amber had long ago forgotten to expect. She stared up at him, bewildered, and neglected for a moment to blink.
Blue. His eyes were blue, similar to Richard’s, but Derek’s were a bright, pure color that looked nothing at all like his uncle’s, with lashes so long Amber could see them from where she stood. Derek’s hair fell well past his shoulders, longer and lighter than Richard’s, a pale brown color the sun had bleached to mostly blond-red. He resembled heaven’s own angel, strong and fair, she thought in an odd moment of whimsy—or he would have if the expression in his eyes hadn’t looked so…bleak.
“How d’ya do, Mr. Fontaine?” Micah’s welcome dissolved the stillness, much to Amber’s relief. She blinked and looked away. “I knew yer uncle well. We shared many a fine glass a’ whiskey. He was a good friend, and I’m real sorry he ain’t here with us now.”
“Yes, well, thank you.” Derek turned to the other mounted man before Amber could offer her own condolences. “This is Gideon.”
Was the change in subject as deliberate as it appeared? Amber stared at Derek a moment longer, but his stark expression provided no clue. Perhaps he still grieved over the loss of his uncle. With no other choice, she fixed her gaze on the second man.
Nothing about Gideon could be termed light except for his long blond hair. Everything else was dark. Hat, shirt, pants and boots—even the stallion’s shimmering coat—shared the same deep ebony color. And the leather patch that covered his left eye was black as well.
“Mister…Gideon.” Amber looked directly in his good eye and did her best to ignore both the patch and the mean-looking red scar that snaked out from beneath it. The scar bisected his left cheek into two crooked halves. The right side of his face, however, remained as beautiful and flawless as any angel in heaven above.
Were they suddenly beset by fallen angels?
“Ma’am,” Gideon said, his voice as low and polite as his good eye was cold and distant.
“It’s miss. I’m not married.” Something compelled her to correct the assumption, though she couldn’t imagine why it should matter.
Gideon nodded, then introduced himself to Micah.
“We’d like to settle in, if you don’t mind,” said Derek.
“Of course. Micah, if you’ll take Gideon to the bunkhouse and see to Mr. Fontaine’s horse, I’ll show him the main house.”
“I prefer to take care of my own horse, if you don’t mind, Miss Laughton.”
“I…er, yes, of course.” Amber glanced at the sorrel, focusing her attention on the animal rather than its owner. The man seemed to have a talent for making her feel like a blundering fool. “I’ll be over there, in the garden—” she turned to point behind her “—whenever you’re ready.”
“Come along then, boys, an’ I’ll show ya the way.” Micah headed toward the corral with a wave, and the younger men followed his lead without comment.
Well, then. So this was it. Amber watched them make their way across the yard, an anxiety she didn’t recognize putting an awkward brittleness into her shoulders, her limbs.
Remain calm, she told herself. Don’t think, just breathe. But a hollow had opened up low in her stomach, and it transformed even simple breathing into a sketchy, labored effort.
“This kind of weakness is completely unacceptable,” she insisted softly, aloud this time, hoping it might give her strength. Now, of all times, she must keep her wits about her.
A year of grace. She’d had that long to prepare herself for this moment. She’d even thought, until now, she’d done a credible job of it. Why, then, did she feel on the sharp edge of such panic and…emptiness?
Stop it! Don’t waste your time on emotion. It’s useless. Be practical. Look at the facts.
The